Melissa isn’t looking for romance since the murder of her cheating, swindling husband. She wants to teach and mind her own business. However, someone her husband cheated is determined to make her repay money her husband stole before his murder in the bed of one of his paramours. Complications arise when Gabe, her former crush, walks into her classroom to check on his son, one of her students. The kid has a secret, she knows that secret, and his father wants to know that secret. When Gabe and Melissa leave a basketball game and find all four tires on her vintage Mustang flat, he determines she needs his protection, despite her insistence she doesn’t. Gabe and Melissa’s brother were best friends. He looked after her when she tagged along behind him and her brother. Since her brother is out of the country Gabe feels obligated to protect her, just until her brother returns. Someone has planted cameras in her house and made intimate looking photographs he shares on the Internet with her students. Who is sending her threatening emails and how far will her go to get what he wants?

Excerpt:

“You’re out of your mind! There’s no way that man
could have been in my house. I’d know it. You’re trying to scare me. Why?”

“Just help me check things out. Look for anything he
might have moved.” God, he hoped her home hadn’t been invaded. If it had he’d
make her move in with him and Jay until her family returned.

Cabinets, shelves, and drawers looked undisturbed.
Even a neat housekeeper was likely to leave a small space with dust, but no
clear spaces or trails showed things had been moved. Nothing seemed out of
place.

Hours later Melissa stared at her luminous clock
face. After tossing and turning forever she was nowhere near sleep. Though
she’d opened, then closed, then opened her bedroom door, shadows took on life.
Settling sounds, the icemaker, clocks, and other sounds she would have normally
ignored became ghost, monster, or boogie-man.

Two o’clock. Damn. Melissa threw the covers back and
reached for her robe. No point staying
here. Her den was dark except for the glow from the fireplace. Only quiet
breathing and an occasional pop from the fire broke the silence.

Gabe slumped on the extra-long sofa. At least he
could stretch out and rest. His face, bronzed by the firelight, made her breath
catch in her throat. God, he was beautiful! The room was warm, but she reached
for the afghan spread over the back of the lounge chair. He’d removed his
boots. No holes in his socks. That
made her smile. She reached out to spread the cover over his prone body.

Like hell! “No can do, friend. I just came to check on you, to
see if you need anything. Sorry I woke you. I’ll just get myself a glass of
milk. Want one?”

“I wasn’t sleeping, either, Lissie. I was thinking
about you, listening to your bed creak as you tossed and turned. And I was
wondering what you wore to bed.” He chuckled at the sound of her indignation. “Yeah,
I’d love a glass of milk.”

He didn’t follow her into the kitchen. She’d know his
jeans were tight with his arousal. He managed to sit up without cutting off the
circulation there by the time she returned with the glasses of milk.

His hard-on had calmed, but she was enough woman to
make any man want to the point of pain. Tousled auburn hair framed her slender
face then tumbled down her back. At least now he knew she hadn’t gone to bed
with curlers in her luxurious hair. Her face, bare of makeup, looked younger
than her twenty-eight years. He knew her age as well as his own, thirty-four.

He squirmed to make himself more comfortable. His
body still reacted like that of a seventeen-year old around her. He’d bet she
didn’t realize her cotton gown was sexy as hell. When her robe parted the
clinging fabric outlined her legs. Back-lit by the firelight, it became almost
transparent.

“Sit,” he ordered, pulling her down on the sofa
beside him. “Drink your milk.”

He emptied his glass in several swallows as she
watched. She sipped hers. He removed her empty glass from her hands and placed
it on the floor.

“Just put your head on my shoulder and rest your eyes
while I talk.” His arm behind her on the sofa made it easy for her to use his
chest as her pillow.

“Remember the time” helped him remember he had stayed
to protect her, not to lust after her.

Lissie’s body was soft in all the right places. His
own was painfully hard in one particular place. She fought sleep, but she’d
succumbed to exhaustion. He’d never have guessed how much he’d enjoy just holding
her and reminiscing. Her laughter had been like music to his ears, low pitched,
deep and throaty.

She‘d fallen asleep and he’d dozed. The first time
he’d jerked himself awake her body was sprawled across his, her hand caressing
his arousal. Carefully he’d maneuvered himself so she rested beside him. Like a
trusting child she allowed him to move her without awaking. He moved her body
so that spoon fashion, his chest to her back, their bodies aligned to make the
couch long enough. At least he didn’t doze again.

There is a particular intrigue to the monarchies that have survived until today, be it the United Kingdom, Sweden, Norway, or Monaco. The Royals are historic and romantic. Like famous movie stars, they are always in the public eye. People are eager to learn what Harry’s and Megan’s everyday life is like.

It is no wonder that the royal gown is a hot topic of discussion and the most likely to be remembered. For a few moments, let’s enter the world of the nobility.

In 1840, Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom wore a white wedding gown in her marriage to Prince Albert of Saxe, Coburg and Gotha. The plain satin gown was made from fabric woven in Spitafields near London and trimmed with a deep flounce and handmade lace from Devon. William Dyce, head of the then Government School of Design (later the Royal College of Art) designed and…

How do you get ideas for plots and characters?Life experiences, dreams, people I’ve met, and what’s going on in the world bring up the questions, ideas, and emotions that make up a story. Characters are based on stories I’ve heard, mashups of people I know, or inspired by real people like Whistle Bitch,a real bartender we met at an all-night diner in Seattle near the Space Needle. She whistled while she worked and earned the nickname from her coworkers.

Have any of your characters ever shocked you?Yes, but do they shock readers? Gillian is hell-bent on getting justice for what she believes was murder. She does things I never thought she’d do, but I couldn’t stop her. She’s 21, naïve, and invincible. She also wants to prove to herself she has the courage to do something important.

Which comes first, the passion or the story idea? With Becker Circle, definitely the passion to raise awareness about and stop domestic violence and inspire peopleto seek help. Becker Circle is about Gillian starting over without violence. Fresh starts come with doubts, but those doubts are rarely worse than what already happened. Like Gillian, we’re never alone. There’s always help from friends,family, co-workers, police, and organizations like Hope’s Door New Beginning Center. Here’sa scene from Becker Circle where Gillian grows stronger in her fresh start.

BECKER CIRCLE EXCERPT

“That’s what I hear.” I pour another round of shots. “Be right back. Just going to deliver these.”

On my return, I run into Bradweiser coming from the bathroom. “Give me a hug.” He opens his arms and squeezes me. It’s uncomfortable. When he loosens his grip, he slides around where his arm wraps around my throat. Tight.

I gasp for breath and my tray crashes to the wood floor breaking the somber near silence.

Everything rushes back. The night Connor left huge bruises on my neck then dragged me across the floor by my hair. All because I wasn’t ready to get engaged.

This time I’m not afraid. I’m ready to fight. Feet firm on the ground I wrap one leg behind Brad and slam my knee into the back of his. His knee bends and I twist out of his tight hold.

“What the hell are you doing?” I pick the tray up off the floor and step back to a safe distance, my heart still racing.

“I’m sorry,” he begs. “I’m so sorry, Gillian. I just wanted to hug you.”

“Gillian, are you hurt?” Steve asks, stepping between us with Joey right behind him.

Beverley has a print copy of Her Gilded Prison to giveaway during the tour. Please use the Rafflecopter below to enter. Remember you may enter every day for your chance to win a print copy of Her Gilded Prison. You may find the tour locations here.

“My beautiful Revenge.”

Four years ago, Faith’s mysterious benefactress falsely accused her of stealing and deposited her in Madame Chambon’s exclusive brothel.

There, Faith was to learn how to entrance London’s noble gentlemen with her learning in philosophy, politics and art.

Her body was to be saved for the greatest enticement of all: revenge.

Faith doesn’t care what she has to do. She lives only to fulfill a bargain that will set her free.

But when Faith is recruited as the muse of a talented, sensitive painter whose victory in a prestigious art competition turns them both into celebrities overnight, she discovers the reasons behind her mission are very different from what she’d been led to believe.

Now she is complicit in something dark and dangerous while riches, adulation and freedom are hers for the taking.

But what value are these if her heart has become a slave to the man she is required to destroy?

Confident that her answer was pleasing, Faith reached across the table to help herself to a macaroon but a sharp slap across the back of the hand stopped her progress by the silver teapot.

Her smile of feigned contrition was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Madame Chambon. Not an invitation to partake of a macaroon, unfortunately. The table laden with eclairs and petit fours in Madame’s private sitting room was merely for show.

“Greedy girl, Faith! You can eat at the Dorchester tomorrow and I daresay you won’t even spare a thought for the other girls who are justified in being somewhat jealous of your cossetted life.” Madame sniffed as she patted one of the grizzled, orange curls of her elaborate coiffure. Faith suspected a squirrel’s pelt had made its contribution. “I’m sure they wonder every day why you never have to stir yourself – or anyone else, for that matter – to get your fine clothes or a roof over your head.” Madame Chambon piled three macaroons onto her already laden plate before making a sweeping gesture that encompassed the furnishings of her surprisingly decorous private sitting room with its gold tasseled green velvet curtains and flock wallpaper. “What have you told them, Faith? About why you are here, I mean?”

Faith’s stomach rumbled as she gazed from the prints of the famous artists that lined the walls to the fine fare in front of her, ordered from Fortnum and Mason. These monthly sessions in table manners were supposed to give Faith the practice she needed to deport herself like a lady when eating in public. However, under Madame’s guardianship, Faith never actually got to try the specialties.

“Answer me, Faith. In all the three years that you’ve been here, you’ve had to do precisely nothing to justify your existence. Surely the girls have questioned you? I have my own version of the truth for them, as you know, but I’d be interested to hear what you have to say.”

Faith didn’t answer. She already knew how lucky she was, but Madame was not ready to drop the subject, despite having just crammed an entire chocolate éclair into her mouth. Faith just managed to make out the muffled words, “Every night you lie peacefully in your bed while the other girls have to earn their livings.”

Lying peacefully in her bed was not how Faith would describe the restfulness of her slumber. She was kept awake every night by the grunts and cries of ecstasy that penetrated the thin walls of her attic chamber.

Still, she’d finally learned when it was wise to respond meekly, so she bowed her head and stared at her neat kid gloves while dreaming of the delicacies Mrs. Gedge would order for them when Faith really was dining with her at the Dorchester Hotel the following afternoon. The Sacher Torte Mrs. Gedge had ummed and aahed over before finally choosing the baked Alaska from the sweets trolley last month still haunted her. However, since part of Faith’s tutoring included how to win over reluctant gentleman ‘and make them wild with wanting’ which is how Madame phrased it, then surely Faith could persuade her American benefactress to order the Austrian chocolate specialty?

She was so busy rehearsing her words for tomorrow that she almost missed Madame’s prophetic and appalling statement.

“Well, Faith, the time has come for you to start earning your way, now.”

Faith brought her head up in shock. Was Madame teasing? When it appeared not, she gripped the table edge as she struggled for composure. For so long she’d known the reckoning would come. Yes, and with three years preparing for it, she’d believed she could meet it head-on with the necessary fortitude.

But there’d been no warning.

She began to shake, biting into her bottom lip and clasping her hands in her lap to try and keep secret the manifestations of her terror from Madame who’d only be spurred onto gloating and make her suffer even more.

“Mrs. Gedge reported last month that she wasn’t entirely happy you were ready for what she has in store for you when she took you to tea, Faith.” Madame chewed noisily, unperturbed, it seemed, by the crumbs that landed on her gaudy vermillion skirts.

Faith didn’t suggest that Mrs. Gedge’s dissatisfaction was perhaps the fault of Faith’s tutor – the one sitting in front of her – who knew nothing about deporting herself as a lady.

With a dainty gesture using only her forefingers, Madame Chambon raised her plate and licked at the crumbs that had not been dislodged before saying, “Fortunately, Lady Vernon is recovered at last from her long indisposition and has agreed to forget your rudeness to her from six months ago. In fact, she’ll be here shortly. Yes, she’ll soon have you passing the scrutiny of the most discerning duchess.” Madame gobbled down another macaroon with as much finesse as the dogs Faith’s father used to goad into fighting each other after they’d fought over the scraps from the scrubbed wooden table at the farm. Not that there’d been many scraps with ten children to feed.

“Should we not have waited for Lady Vernon?” Faith suggested, daringly. But she had to say something to stop herself from launching into a volley of querulous questions about exactly what form this ‘having to earn her own way’ might take.

Madame Chambon pushed aside an untouched plate of bread and butter to reach for another chocolate éclair and sighed. “There was just so much food on the table it seemed unnecessary to wait if her ladyship was going to be late. Ah! And here she is.” Madame’s orange painted mouth turned up at a knock on the door. “Shoulders back, Faith! And make sure you don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Since this was not a danger, Faith supposed there might be some compensation in having to face her former nemesis who surely must subscribe to the belief that learning table manners required one having to eat.

Madame threw her arms wide in a welcome as the door opened to admit the new arrival. “Good evening, Lady Vernon. We’re so glad you’ve recovered from your chest ailment,” she gushed. “A good rest has done you the world of good. Why, you look ten years younger. Just as you do every time I see you, in fact. And we’re indeed humbled that you’ve consented to return.” Madame simpered at the elderly woman, dressed all in black who looked, Faith thought, even more wraith-like than usual as she pinned up the veil of her bonnet and took the seat at the table proffered by Madame who went on, “I’m sure you’ll feel even better once you’ve heard Faith’s heartfelt apology.”

Faith blushed under the scrutiny of the two pairs of expectant, unforgiving eyes, and glanced longingly at the remaining macaroon.

Yes, there were times when it was worth being abject. She mightn’t mean what she said, but if the last three years under Madame Chambon’s roof had taught her one thing, it was how to sound heartfelt and sincere when she felt anything but.

“I’m sorry for my rude comments about…” Faith hesitated. Perhaps it was best not to stir up old memories. While it must be perfectly obvious to anyone who met Lady Vernon as to why an earl’s daughter could remain a spinster into her sixtieth year, it hadn’t been in anyone’s interest – Faith’s least of all, it turned out – for Faith to have gone into quite such specific and extensive detail regarding her thoughts on the likely reasons. “I behaved like a child, though it’s such a long time ago, now, I can barely remember what was going through my head at the time. I was only seventeen and, in those days, prone to losing my temper but now I’m eighteen and, thanks to all your efforts in teaching me how to act like a lady, Lady Vernon, I’m so far from the rude and impulsive young thing I was before, you’d not recognise me today. Thanks to your thorough tutelage, I am determined that I will never speak out of turn, to you, or anyone. Indeed, I have changed! I truly believe that, confronted by a table of delicacies like this, for example, I would certainly not embarrass you or Mrs. Gedge or any lovely young man or his mother who might take me out to tea by any show of greediness or lack of restraint.”

Lady Vernon’s eyes remained fixed firmly on Faith for the duration of this speech with no indication of how forgiving or otherwise she might prove to be.

After a long silence, she spoke. “Restraint?” She sniffed. “Restraint is the most important requirement of any young lady, Faith. I’ve told you this many times, so I’m glad it’s a lesson you claim to have finally learned.”

With her eyes fixed on Faith, she reached towards the remaining macaroon that sat lonely on its plate just in front of them both, her long-fingered hand hovering just above. “Please pass that to me, Faith. I can’t seem to reach it.”

Wordlessly, Faith complied, schooling her features into impassivity while she railed inside, I hate you! I hate you! as she watched Lady Vernon transport the coconut confection to her thin, bloodless lips.

“Delicious,” Lady Vernon murmured. “In fact, I believe it is the best macaroon I have ever tasted? You must surely agree, Faith, since the plate is now empty.”

She looked pointedly at the two remaining crumbs that clung to the edge of the fine china, as if to imply that Faith had eaten the rest. Then she indicated the plate of bread and butter near Madame Chambon. “Please eat, Faith. Madame Chambon and I have a leisurely afternoon at our disposal. She and I will partake of the remaining chocolate eclairs –” Her pointed chin wobbled slightly, whether from the suppression of mirth or the swallowing of bile, Faith could only guess, “while you make good work of the bread and butter with all the ladylike restraint you’re so anxious to prove.”

Her Fair Cyprians of London series is about a group of determined and clever courtesans at a high-class Soho brothel who use their wit and beauty to avenge past betrayals – and who find lasting love along the way.

How can there be a happily ever after? is a question many a reviewer has asked before admitting to being delighted and satisfied by the unexpected plot twists and surprise endings – just like in Beverley’s own life. You can read more on her website.